


she packed my bags last night, pre-flight

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Elton John song</p>
            </blockquote>





	she packed my bags last night, pre-flight

_“She packed my bags last night pre-flight_   
_Zero hour, nine am”_

John wakes with a start, from a distant dream where he had been floating through the emptiness of space, alone. He shakes his head, once, twice; runs a hand through his hair to push out the last tendrils of sleep from his roots.  
  
Except, it's not shifting. John can still hear faint echoes of spaceman music, circling his ears in some high pitched (mostly off key) medley. He anchors himself up onto his elbows, squints his eyes as if it will help him to better hear the strange sounds floating mercilessly into the room.  
  
“…and I’m gonna be hiiiiiiiigh as a kite by then”  
  
Now _that_ is definitely real. Painfully so. It takes John a few minutes of open mouthed disbelieving to come to terms with the source of the sound. It’s a voice he knows well, every octave of it, but stretched, wild, _purposeful_.  
  
Sherlock. _Sherlock is singing_.  
  
Well, singing might be a bit of an exaggeration. It sounds more like the mating call of a wild beast to John. A dying wild beast.  
  
“Sherlock! Beautiful voice and all, _really_ , but do you mind shutting up a bit?” He shouts, rolling off the bed and cracking the stiffness out of his neck.  
  
There’s a few minutes of lovely golden silence, John sighs in relief, and -  
  
“Oh no no no I'm a rocket man!”  
  
Okay, obviously in the shower then. Which explains why Sherlock is singing at the top of his lungs, even though it’s quite clear that he’s never listened to an Elton John song in his _entire life_. John cringes.  
  
During the process of dressing and padding out into the kitchen to make some tea, John’s treated to another few muddled up verses of Rocket Man - the Sherlock remix. He grits his teeth and squeezes his fists against the arms of his chair through five minutes of ‘rocket maaaaaaaaaan’ repeated over and over in a pitch that’s far too high and foreign for Sherlock’s usually husky voice.  
  
When he switches to French - “ _Je suis un homme fuse!”_ \- John decides right, he’s had enough thanks, empties his tea into the sink and stalks towards the bathroom door.  
  
He gives three loud angry knocks, that Sherlock promptly ignores, before pushing the door ajar slightly. A huge waft of steam steals the breath from him for a moment as he pokes his head around the door frame, before he waves it away and attempts to speak over the din of running water, eyes fixed firmly on the toilet.  
  
“Much as I’m partial to a bit of Elton, can you keep the bloody noise down? Can’t hear my own thoughts over your racket.”  
  
Sherlock halts mid verse and laughs in the deep cavernous voice that John’s used to (and much prefers now he’s heard the alternative). The shower curtain rustles, indicating that a probable amused eyebrow is being thrown his way, that or a pompous smirk. Either way, John's not impressed.  
  
“I’m doing you a favour then.” Sherlock replies, the squeak of plastic on wet skin sets John’s teeth on edge as the man turns in the confines of the shower curtain, apparently nonplussed at the appearance of the doctor.  
  
John rolls his eyes and toes an inch or so further into the room, with half a mind to turn the cold tap on and freeze Sherlock into silence. In the misty reflection of the mirror an obscene slice of Sherlock’s flesh catches John’s traitorous eyes, and he almost gives up and leaves as the man bends to grab a shampoo bottle.  
  
 _Actually_ -  
  
“Hey! That’s my shampoo! Hands _off_ , Sherlock.”  
  
“Don’t be so petty John, mine’s empty, be nice and share.” There’s a squelch as Sherlock squeezes a hefty amount of John’s Head & Shoulders  into the palm of his hand.  
  
“Well buy some more then!” John replies indignantly, watching the scene unfold backwards in the mirror, as the last of his shampoo disappears into Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“You do the shopping, that’s your responsibility. _Honestly_.”  
  
The foamy crown on the detective’s head as he moves the shampoo through his hair is almost ridiculous, and John can’t help but watch. It’s kind of fascinating, observing Sherlock doing something so mundane, so _ordinary_.  
  
And of course, as if the man _can actually read his mind_ , Sherlock rubs his scalp with more vigour; spreads his long fingers wide and pretty much gives himself a full on head massage. His performance is so _put on_ that John nearly laughs - but he’s too regrettably caught up in the blurry reflection of the muscles in Sherlock’s biceps as he moves, the stretch of tendon in the back of his neck as he gently rolls his head in pleasure.  
  
John isn’t sure why he’s not moving. He definitely should be, because now Sherlock’s given up on molesting his own head and has moved onto shower gel (which is also John’s), squeezes an abnormally large dollop of it onto a bath sponge and begins to lather his pale water shined body.  
  
God, it’s practically porn.  
  
Then, there’s a mumbled _it’s gonna be a long long time_ and John suddenly remembers why he’s here in the first place. Remembers that he’s annoyed and pissed off, not uncomfortably hot and _undeniably_ turned on. Somehow he’s managed to migrate from the doorway to the sink, and the expanse of Sherlock’s skin is now clearly in focus, not morphed by mist and mirror.  
  
“Yeeaaaah. Right.” He gulps, tearing his gaze away from Sherlock and back to anything that’s not wet and slippery and inviting. “Why are you singing Elton John, by the way?”  
  
John can nearly taste his smirk, which is bad, mostly because he _actually does_ want to taste it at this moment in time. The sound of the shower curtain being pulled aside nearly forces him to turn around again, but he painfully stands his ground, fists balled at his sides.  
  
“Well, John”  
  
Ohhh. Oh. The warm (still soapy) hands reaching around his back and ribs make John sigh with equalled irritation and relief. Water seeps through the cotton of his shirt, as the hot of Sherlock’s chest burns through the threads, prickles his skin. The mirror now reflects himself, encircled by the long arms of a sodden detective. He watches with a piqued steam-induced interest as a dark curly head bends to whisper in his abused ears -  
  
"I had to get you in here somehow, didn't I?"

 

  


  



End file.
